


to be entertained

by claquesous



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, i love that that is already a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claquesous/pseuds/claquesous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“At eleven the next morning, Gansey received a series of texts from Ronan. The first was merely a photograph. It was a close-up of a part of Ronan’s anatomy that he hadn’t seen before. An Irish flag was twist-tied to it. It was not the most grotesque display of nationalism Gansey had ever seen, but it was close.”</p>
<p>An exposé of Kavinsky's filthiness in every regard and how Gansey got his first dick pic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to be entertained

**Author's Note:**

> Ye be warned: all the drugs, alcohol, rape in the form of dubious consent, Kavinsky, gross borderline smut.

The first day was a long one, since it had in fact started at about 2am. Plenty of sleep was involved, of course, but it was drugged and restless, nothing but a fake credit card for fake things. The first thing Kavinsky asked Ronan was, "How do you like your dreams?"

And Ronan looked him raggedly in the eye and said, "Not sober."

Kavinsky knew this meant drunk, and handed him a pill. Ronan glared at it and took his time dragging that glare up to Kavinsky's face. "What, never rolled, Lynch?" he crooned. He plucked a beer out of a car, pushed it into Ronan’s hand, and pushed Ronan into the passenger seat of one of his roomier Mitsus. Kavinsky actually did have a car for a kitchen, one for a living room, one for a blowjob, one for a fucking wine cooler. It was not as noble an existence as Gansey probably imagined.

Ronan took the beer and pushed away the capsule of Jesus-knows-what kind of dream coke K was trying to give him. “I want to dream,” he snapped.

Kavinsky spread his arms disarmingly, which did everything but disarm. “We’ve got all weekend till Dick gets back, don’t we?” He gave the _k_ in _Dick_ its own syllable. He shrugged and popped the capsule into his own mouth. “But let’s not spend it sober, how ‘bout it, sweetcheeks?” He waved at the drink and Ronan tipped it back. By the time Kavinsky handed him another, the unpleasant sensations of a Henrietta summer were muted, and Ronan could feel the dream world pricking at his eyelids. He laid his head back against the leather headrest and Kavinsky's laugh shattered the quiet. Ronan wasn’t sure why he had thought getting drunk with a cokehead, particularly this cokehead, would be anything but a cacophonous affair, but the hawkish laughter was still several dozen decibels too loud.

“No, no, no.” Kavinsky dug another pill, this one green, out of his pocket and tossed it back, dropping into the driver’s seat. His jaw slackened immediately, out like a light. Ronan eyed him, sipping his beer, not drunk enough to poison himself but too drunk to resist studying the line of Kavinsky’s knobby throat, his concave face and convex lips. At some level Ronan still didn’t believe Kavinsky could possibly have this gift, so he raised his eyebrows when K stirred, looking exactly the same. Kavinsky grinned slyly over and unfolded the hands in his lap to reveal a pile of perfectly rolled joints.

“Shit, man,” Ronan said, exasperated and grudgingly exhilarated, as K slipped one between his lips and lit it with what was probably a dream lighter.

“Have some,” Kavinsky prodded. When Ronan did not look tempted, he took another hit and yanked Ronan toward him over the gearshift. Lynch resisted the hand behind his neck until K began to blow smoke slowly into his face. He caught on and reeled the wisp of smoke into his lungs. The sweet skunky smell, along with something sharper that seemed to belong to Kavinsky, made Ronan realize how fucked up he was and by extension how fucked up he’d be on the other side of the joint glittering in Kavinsky’s fingers.

He sighed, put the Gansey part of his brain in timeout, and allowed Kavinsky to pour more smoke into his mouth.

“There you go,” K murmured, swollen lips curled, and correctly guessed the exact moment that Ronan would let him bring their mouths together in a messy combination of spit and smoke, dreams and alcohol. Ronan kissed innocently, surprised at every turn of tongue and teeth and hands under shirts. It was his soft underbelly, one of the few parts of him he hadn’t refurbished in acid when his father died. Kavinsky felt even filthier than usual with his tongue down Ronan’s virgin throat, and it was exquisite. Like watching a drop of ink diffuse in clear water. Like the rainbow rings grease made on pavement.

“Jesus,” Ronan mumbled breathlessly, and Kavinsky wondered what it meant:

a) approval, pleasure, happiness, etc.,  
b) realization of how impaired he was,  
c) acknowledgement of how long this should have been happening, or  
d) all of the above.

The answer was probably b), but Kavinsky kept kissing him, pressing their beer-and-smoke tongues together, kept drinking his fill of Ronan Lynch.

Of course, with respect to the drink metaphor, the kissing was just the ice.

Kavinsky pulled back slowly, seeing how far he could get Lynch’s mouth to follow him, and swung around the car to the passenger door. If Kavinsky wasn't so scrawny, or if Ronan had been the even more skeletal Prokopenko, he’d have heaved him into the back seat, but K settled for Ronan’s lap, allowing himself the simple but underrated pleasure of denim friction. Ronan gasped, the first nonverbal sound he’d made since Kavinsky had touched him, and Kavinsky bit down lightly on the meat of his tongue to draw it into a moan. It was choked out and hoarse, but it was a moan, and it was Lynch, so Kavinsky wasn’t complaining.

Kavinsky slid off his lap before they made a mess in his car and gave Ronan a parting kiss, smirking to kill. He ran his vein-riddled, bony hands down Ronan’s thighs heavily. “Take off your shirt, Lynch.” Ronan was right where Kavinsky wanted him, too twisted to protest but not to comply. K’s day just kept getting better.

Kavinsky’s knees bit the ground by the car and Ronan panted, the heat of Henrietta and K’s hands getting to him.

Kavinsky flicked Ronan’s pants open and his mouth watered.

“Hand me another joint, why dontcha?” Kavinsky asked lazily, stroking him casually.

“Fuck,” Ronan growled, like “you” had meant to follow it and forgotten, but he even lit the joint before handing it to Kavinsky.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” K grinned, and a cloud of smoke crowned Ronan’s dick as Kavinsky baptized it with a mouthful of spit, playing with the head, devouring the essence of Ronan.

Ronan was _fucked up_. On a scale of one to two, he was too drunk for this shit, on top of having smoked half a joint and lighting one up again with no tolerance. If he had ignored the fact that kissing Kavinsky was a Bad Idea, he was past the point of _awareness_ that letting K suck him off was a Worse Idea. And as weed will do to people, Ronan’s body ached for every touch, every breath, every disgusting kiss. He was out of his mind by the time Kavinsky had his mouth around his dick, so he wound K’s hair around his fingers and lost himself.

* * *

Kavinsky licked his lips and wiped his mouth, standing and adjusting the crotch of his own pants. He hadn’t stopped until Ronan came twice, since he'd shot his load before K had even begun to show off. Kavinsky was the first to admit that he needed as much Ronan in his system as possible, but more importantly, in the long run at least, he needed to set the hook. Ronan had to remember this despite his catastrophic state. K thought he had succeeded. Ronan was slumped in the passenger seat, asleep or very barely conscious, and Kavinsky was struck with a thought. He got Ronan’s phone out of his pants, cast around for an entertaining prop, took a picture, put Ronan’s dick back into his pants, and sent the picture to the Girlfriend.

What a nice day it had been, he thought, jerking off quickly into the grass and flinging himself into the back seat of the residential car. Lynch almost dying was the best thing to happen to Kavinsky all fucking year.

 

 


End file.
